


to ashes

by binkabonkahankeydoo



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Gen, Ladybug - Freeform, PTSD, Post-Episode: s03 La Marionnettiste 2 | The Puppeteer 2, Puppeteer 2, Sleeplessness, Trauma, after he dusted the wax ladybug, ladybug is mentioned but she no actually in it, watched the episode and immediately thought of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:30:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binkabonkahankeydoo/pseuds/binkabonkahankeydoo
Summary: She'd turned to dust in his hands, her beautiful face crumbling, sliding through his helpless fingers and pooling on the floor.It hadn't been her.But God, it had looked like her.Post: The Puppeteer 2





	to ashes

**Author's Note:**

> accept my midnight scribble!!  
i rewatched puppeteer 2 and thought. wow! thats some trauma right there! so here ya go

Not for the first time that night, he wakes violently, fists clenched in the sheets, heartbeat wild and his breathing heavy, choking on a panic rising from deep within him that he can't quell.

It sits in his throat, clawing its way up, swelling and swelling and swelling until it feels like he might burst, like he might turn himself inside out and gag on his own tongue.

He'd welcome that, if it would bring him some relief.

But he doesn't choke, and relief doesn't come.

Above him, the ceiling swims around the edges, the remnants of his tears leaking down his face and soaking into his hairline.

He forces himself to take a breath.

And another.

Then one more.

But it barely seems to help.

The panic traps him. A fear, a _terror_, paralyzes him, and he just can't seem to shake it; the ashes that stain his hands.

It's been three days.

He's barely slept since then. The darkness waits for him. It waits for him to close his eyes, to rest his mind; the void of sleep a darkened theater showing only the same image again and again and again.

Ashes.

_Ashes_.

She'd looked so real. _God_, she'd looked so real.

So real as she'd crumbled in his arms that for a moment, for a heart-wrenching moment he'd thought.....

He throws off the sweat-drenched covers and sits up, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, desperately trying to rub away the images seared onto the backs of his eyelids.

He knows it wasn't her. He knows it wasn't real.

But it still rips into him, tears at him; eating him alive.

She'd turned to dust in his hands, her beautiful face crumbling, sliding through his helpless fingers and pooling on the floor.

It hadn't been her.

But _God_, it had looked like her.

What if he'd been _wrong?_

A sigh escapes him, a sigh that sounds almost closer to a sob, and he pushes himself off the bed. The floor is cold and his feet are bare, but he's sweaty enough that he almost doesn't feel it.

He pads over to the window. It's still dark outside; the rooftops of Paris glittering in the light of the moon, the streetlamps scattered across the horizon like fallen stars.

It should be beautiful.

But he's just too exhausted.

He wonders if she's out there right now, amongst the shadows and the city lights, her footfalls gentle as she runs across the cobbled roofs, swift and silent in the dead of night.

Resting his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, he lets his eyes slip closed.

For a moment, he feels a calm come over him; a serenity that the shock of cold brings, rendering his mind blissfully white.

For a moment.

But the glass warms rapidly under his flushed skin, and with the heat returns the panic; the bile at the back of his throat.

He forces his eyes back open, and her ashes scatter as the city lights swims back into focus before him.

_God_, he feels so useless.

So _pathetic_.

He can't even blink without her ghost clawing its way up his throat, ripping and tearing and screaming, bringing the panic with it; the endless, heavy panic.

Ashes.

_Ashes_.

The sudden soft pitter-patter of rain startles him. How long has he been standing at the window?

Maybe an hour?

Maybe more?

It's still dark outside, the city lights still glowing in the night, but the sky has begun to lighten around the edges. The horizon brightens further as he watches, a soft pink hue promising the coming of a magnificent sunrise, but he doesn't stay to find out.

His bed is still soaked, so he flips his duvet over, and settles down against the driest pillow.

It's a few hours still before he's due to start his morning, and he knows he desperately needs the sleep. He's no use to Paris like this.

He's no use to his partner like this.

So he closes his eyes, and in the darkness of sleep, he turns her to dust once more.


End file.
